The Eye of Fate
by Gollum's Fish
Summary: HPLotR. Harry and his two best friends set out to hunt down the remaining Horcruxes. However, little known to them, their quest will take them into a world full of magical creatures, political strife, and two friends...
1. Chapter One: Lands of Shadow

As you all know, this is my first ever Harry Potter fic, so please be gentle when you come to being critical. However, I would like to add that this is a cross over: no tomato throwing, please. I don't like tomatoes. Again, as you all know, I write mainly in The Lord of the Rings section, and, you guessed it, that is what I am crossing Harry Potter with. If you despise cross overs, read no further, for I am unwilling to accept any flaming for mixing the two different tales; you have been warned, and, if you do not like it, you do not have to read it. Quite simple. Now. The summary… 

Following the death of Dumbledore, Harry keeps to his word, and sets out to hunt down all of the remaining Horcruxes. However, little known to Harry, Ron and Hermione, their quest will take them to unforeseen levels of danger and surprise, as they find themselves in a world full of magical creatures, political strife, and two friends, with whom the three companions come face-to-face with unexpectedly…

The Eye of Fate

Chapter One – Lands of Shadows 

He still dwelt in a world of disbelief. It was cold and unforgiving, and it made his heart ache horribly. What did he really have left now? There were so many things that he loved in his life, so many people … but those who had been dearest to him were dead – his parents had died for him; Sirius had died over a horrible, _horrible_ mistake he had made, coming to his aid, only to be murdered. And now Dumbledore was gone, he too murdered.

Ron and Hermione were his two best friends in the entire world – what if something happened to them because of him? What if one of them was used by Voldemort to get to Harry? If he lost one of them, either of them, _both_ of them, as it could well be, what would he do? He could not allow that to happen. They were everything to him now, and he would not let Voldemort use them like he was so sure he would…

Harry lay staring at the ceiling in the darkness. Sleep would not take him, and the prospect of climbing out of bed and going downstairs did not even slightly appeal to him – the high possibility of encountering Uncle Vernon in the living room was not one he favoured. His Uncle had taken to sitting up into the early hours of the night, thinking of his family's … _situation_ with regards to his nephew. Harry did not actually care. There was nothing for Uncle Vernon to really think over: Harry was merely visiting the house for a few days, just as he had vowed to Dumbledore. Then he would be gone. The Dursley's need never seen him again after that.

Hedwig ruffled her feathers at the other end of the room, her amber eyes regarding him with a quiet sort of interest. She wanted to go out hunting; having looked indignantly at the dead mice Harry had presented her with earlier before she had eaten them, Hedwig had hinted persistently that she wished to leave, often hooting loudly and flapping. Uncle Vernon, naturally, had complained and threatened to have Harry's "bloody pigeon" stuffed. However, Harry, in the aftermath of Dumbledore's death, did not take very well to threats of any kind made against him, and had come to the stage where even the mildest poke at his emotions or nerves caused him to draw his wand with very little thought. Forced to remember what Harry had managed to do to his sister Marge four years ago, Uncle Vernon now always backed down…

Harry rolled over onto his side to see the time on the small digital alarm clock on the bedside table. One thirty in the morning. He had been in bed for two hours already, though it felt like an eternity of staring at the ceiling to him.

The house was quiet, save for the grunting snores of his cousin Dudley in his room across the hall. As much as he tried to resist going downstairs, Harry's stomach was beginning to rumble, as though all this thinking was using up his energy resources. Yes, he could hear Dudley, but normally, Uncle Vernon's guttural snorts made themselves audible through the wall, despite the fact that there was the bathroom between his aunt and uncle's room and Harry's. This had to mean that Uncle Vernon was in the living room. He would, more likely than not, be slumped on the sofa, mumbling under his breath about weirdos and freaks using his house as a meeting place and hotel.

He finally got up, tired of not being able to sleep. He fancied something to eat, whether Uncle Vernon sat grumbling to himself on the sofa or not. He took himself quietly out of his room and onto the dark landing, wand in hand. He had taken to having it with him wherever he went, even in the house.

'_Lumos_.' The stairs were lit by the soft glow emitted from his wand tip, supplying him with adequate light as he descended. The yellow glow of the lamp in the living room spilled through the open door, creating a soft pool on the cream carpet. Harry stepped into it, and slowly pushed open the door. Uncle Vernon, as Harry had predicted, was indeed slouched on the sofa. He was, however, silent, and breathing deeply._ That's lucky_, Harry thought bitterly. _At least I won't have to listen to him going on…_

However, the door creaked as Harry pushed on it, and this smallest of sounds was enough to make Uncle Vernon sit bolt upright. He spun round in his fright, his panic making him grasp the arms of the sofa so hard that his knuckles were white. Finally, his piggy eyes settled upon Harry, and they narrowed unpleasantly as he watched his nephew.

'What are _you_ doing up?'

'Coming downstairs, apparently,' replied Harry icily. 'I am allowed to do that.' He crossed the living room, passed through the dining area, and turned on the kitchen light, saying '_Knox_' to his wand to put out the light. He began to rummage in the fridge for something to eat, finally emerging after much sifting with a jar of jam and tub of butter, before putting two slices of bread into the toaster. Then he gave his wand a flick: '_Accio_ _plate and butter knife_.' The draw and cupboard opened simultaneously, and both plate and knife settled on the counter before him.

Uncle Vernon - who had been watching Harry's actions from the relative safety of the sofa - jumped up, pointing an accusing, shaking finger at Harry. 'You're not allowed to do magic outside school!' he shouted triumphantly. 'Now you'll be expelled!'

Harry merely glanced at his uncle, then Summoned the toast to himself. 'Actually,' he replied, 'I turned seventeen an hour ago, which means I can do as much magic as I like. And I'm not going back to Hogwarts.' He proceeded with buttering his toast while it was still hot, allowing the statement to hang in the air between himself and his uncle.

'Oh, expelled, were you?' sneered Uncle Vernon at last, after the initial shock of hearing that his nephew was not going back to school. 'I knew it would only be a matter of time until-'

'My Headmaster was murdered!' Harry cut in, slamming down his toast with such force that the slice broke in two. His temper, always short, flared at the tone Uncle Vernon was using on him. 'He was murdered by one of my teachers,' he muttered, almost to himself. Harry's eyes no longer focused upon Uncle Vernon. All he could think of was Snape's sneering, hook-nosed face. All the times Harry had questioned Snape's integrity, both to his two best friends and Dumbledore…

"_Professor … how can you be _sure_ Snape's on our side?"_

"_I trust Severus Snape completely."_

The mere memory of that conversation hurt him inside, a kind of agonising ripping at his soul, his heart tearing with the pain. The intensive anger he had felt on that fateful night began to bubble within him again, his chest constricting with the sheer force of his hatred … he was not aware that his hand screwed up the toast, jam spilling from between his fingers like blood. Why had Dumbledore trusted Snape, _why_? _His insistence of being able to see the good in people took him to his death…_

Uncle Vernon, who had been watching without Harry even realising, chose not to not remark upon the dribbling jam, turned his back on the kitchen, flicked on the television and put on the twenty-four hour news through his Sky box. In a second, the female newsreader shone from the screen, seemingly in the middle of a report on a particularly aggressive storm that was battering the South West… '_The Met Office is at a complete loss as to how this storm could have arisen without their knowing. Oddly, this strange phenomenon occurred at this time last year…'_

Harry knew exactly how it had happened, and he also knew that it would not be the last. He began to peel the broken toast from his fingers, rinsing them under the kitchen tap to rid them of the remnants of raspberry jam, squelching the bar of soap in his hands…

'_And now to our next story,'_ chimed the newsreader, shuffling her papers showily. '_The Police declared today that they are closing the high-profile murder case of Amelia Bones-' _the bar of soap shot from Harry's hands, ricocheting off the wall above the sink and flying into the living room. He instantly followed it, but, rather than picking it up, he came to a halt beside Uncle Vernon, his eyes fixed on the woman. '_Ms Bones's murder occurred in her London home in the July of last year, and completely threw police due to the fact that it took place in a room locked from the inside. The killer left no evidence and has completely mystified police…'_

'I knew Amelia Bones,' Harry declared sadly. 'She was a good person.'

'Don't be ridiculous!' snapped Uncle Vernon. 'How could _you_ possibly have known her? You're always at that bloody school of yours – when do you ever go to London?'

'Once a year, actually,' Harry responded. 'More than that two years ago, because of my trial. Amelia Bones was on the panel. She believed me about the Dementors. She was Head of Magical Law Enforcement – that's why he killed her.'

'He who?'

'The same one that killed my parents and countless others,' Harry replied flatly. He took the soap back into the kitchen as the newsreader commenced with a different report. It did not surprise him that the police had given up searching for the killer. After all, how would _they_ be able to catch the Dark Lord when the whole of the wizarding world could not? The whole of the wizarding world, that is, save for Harry…


	2. Chapter Two: A Knock at the Door

Chapter Two – A Knock at the Door

Uncle Vernon, always one to deny that wizards – including his nephew – even existed, seemed to decide that watching the television was distinctly preferable to listening to Harry talk about a world that he neither understood nor wanted to, while Harry proceeded with eating his severely mutilated and now cold toast.

_I'm seventeen now_, Harry began to think. _I am no longer protected in this house. I'll leave tomorrow. Early… _He took a good, long look at the back of Uncle Vernon's large head. Would he miss the Dursley's? More likely than not, no, he wouldn't, and he greatly doubted that they would ever miss him – in fact, he would not be surprised if they threw a party when he left. They did not love him, nor had they ever loved him. They had only given him a proper bedroom when he was eleven because they feared the powers he might exert on them, not because he had "outgrown the cupboard under the stairs", as Uncle Vernon had said.

_No, they won't care that I'm gone. I'll go to Godric's Hollow after Bill and Fleur's wedding, and then on to find the Horcruxes…_

As he stood musing, slipping ever deeper into his thoughts, a most normal thing happened at the most abnormal of times: the doorbell rang.

'Who the bloody Hell is that?' snapped Uncle Vernon after recovering from the initial shock of hearing the bell ringing at two in the morning. He was in the process of getting up, but Harry was already passing him to get to the door, his wand in hand, every muscle tense. Dumbledore's spell had worn off now – there was no telling who could be at the door…

'I'll get it,' Harry informed his uncle. 'Stay here.' Uncle Vernon turned an interesting shade of purple at being told by a young man in _his_ house to stay put, but, after the warning look from Harry and the distinct waggling of his wand at him, Harry's uncle grudgingly sat back down, glaring daggers at Harry's retreating back.

Harry advanced through the pitch black of the hallway, leaving the lights off and his wand held at the ready. His mind sifted frantically for a suitable jinx, before settling on his old favourite, _Expelliarmus,_ should the knocker be dangerous… But, as he approached silently, Harry distinctly heard two voices bickering on the other side of the door…

'Normal people just aren't up at this time in the morning!'

'Oh, don't be ridiculous! I can hear the television, and the lights are on in the front room-'

'-Lights or no lights, I still think he'll be asleep.'

'Just because you-'

'-D'you know,' began Harry, as he opened the door to see the two people standing on the doorstep, 'that if I hadn't heard you two arguing, I would have jinxed you?'

Hermione's face split into a wide smile as she saw him, and she flung her arms around his neck, giving him a warm hug. 'Happy birthday, Harry!' Harry hugged her back, glad to see his two best friends at long last.

'Yeah, happy birthday, mate!' said Ron grinning fondly at Harry. 'We both got you presents, but they're back at The Burrow… what?'

Harry was standing staring at both of them, as though at a complete loss. 'You're both here…'

'Yeah, we know,' responded Ron, an eyebrow raised. 'We _are_ us, and we do have _some_ idea about what we're doing.'

'But it's two in the morning!'

'Hermione's idea,' Ron informed him. 'I told her it would be better to wait until the morning, but she insisted that you'd be up and about anyway, and we should come and get you.'

Harry grinned to himself … they knew him so well…

'You'll remember, Harry,' Hermione began quietly, 'what we said to you at – at Dumbledore's funeral-' her voice wavered momentarily, but then continued in its usual strength '-that we'd be here for you, at your aunt and uncle's house when you turned seventeen? We're keeping our promise.'

Harry had never felt a stronger adoration for the two people in front of him than he did at that point. Warmth flooded through his chest, and he felt as though his heart had swelled with the love he felt for his friends. Something of what he felt must have shown on his face, for Hermione's smile began to tremble slightly as it broadened even further, her eyes taking on a glassy appearance. 'We will always be here for you, Harry,' she declared. 'Always.'

'But not on this doorstep, hey mate?'

Harry, at Ron's words, realised that he'd kept his friends on the doorstep and completely forgotten his manners. 'Sorry – come in. My Uncle Vernon's in the living room, so be warned.'

Ron and Hermione nodded as they followed him into the hallway, quietly taking in the darkened house as they passed through the doorway to the living room.

'So,' began Hermione, with vigour in her voice that Harry only heard from her when she was thinking about something academic. 'Which spell did you use first? Something elaborate, I expect, wasn't it? Like a Patronus, or-'

'-Why would Harry be producing a Patronus with no Dementors?'

Hermione shot Ron a withering look.

'Actually,' said Harry, 'I Summoned a knife and plate.'

'Oh,' said Hermione, looking a bit crestfallen.

Uncle Vernon, after hearing the voices at the door and having ascertained that they were actually now in his house, was standing beside the sofa, eyes narrowed again. There was a mingled look of suspicion, fury, and fear on his face, making him look even more like a prune than normal. 'Who in _Hell's name _are you?' he spat at Ron and Hermione, seemingly gathering some resolve to himself when he realised that the two strangers were not much older than Harry. He could bully people of such blatant youth…

Hermione, whose tongue did not seem to be completely forgotten – unlike Ron, who was watching Uncle Vernon with a kind of befuddled fascination – smiled politely, and said: 'I beg your pardon for our intrusion at such an early hour, Mr Dursley. My name is Hermione Granger, and this is Ronald Weasley-' There was a sharp gasp from Ron, as Hermione had stamped on his foot to make him stop gawping. Ron uttered a hasty 'How do you do', but proceeded with examining his feet at the nasty look Uncle Vernon was giving him.

'We are friends of Harry's,' Hermione continued, though her voice began to falter as Mr Dursley turned his glare on her. 'We've come to … collect … him…'

'What the bloody Hell do you think you're doing, letting _your lot_ into our house?' Mr Dursley was not looking at Hermione; in fact, he was doing a very good impression of a deaf man so far as Hermione was concerned. His eyes were bulging at Harry, who was again in the kitchen, fixing two glasses of water for his friends.

'If you were not so rude and ignorant,' said Harry as he filled the glasses at the sink, completely blanking the mounting rage in his uncle's face, 'you would have heard Hermione say that they are collecting me.' He turned off the tap and passed the water to his two best friends. 'Last year, when Dumbledore came to get me, he said that after my seventeenth birthday, the Charm protecting this house would stop. With that Charm gone, there is nothing to keep me here: I'm leaving tonight with these two.'

Uncle Vernon looked as though he could not believe his ears. 'Leaving? For how long?' He looked painfully hopeful.

'Forever.'

A look of mingled shock and glee graced Uncle Vernon's face – the thought of Harry gone forever from his house was one he clearly found to be a fantastic prospect. Harry could practically see the visions his uncle was having of a Harry-free home, and possibly what he was planning to do with the soon-to-be spare bedroom. 'You _are_ taking that bloody pigeon of yours as well, aren't you?'

'Of course I am – I wouldn't leave her with you – you'd probably have her stuffed or something…'

'The thought had occurred to me,' Uncle Vernon confessed, though with little remorse, it seemed.

'You're leaving?'

Everyone in the room turned in surprise to look into the doorway of the living room, to see stood there a tall thin woman with a distinctly horse-ish face. However, the cold glare and harsh tones that Harry was accustomed to getting from his Aunt Petunia were not there; instead, she looked – if Harry dared think it – a little startled at the news.

'Yes,' he eventually replied. 'I'm going tonight.'

Mrs Dursley sucked on her teeth and leaned against the doorframe, studying Harry through narrow eyes. Harry waited for some cutting remark, or a few scathing words about how good it would be to have him gone, but instead she said: 'You are so very much like Lily.'

Harry was taken aback; her tone was not harsh or critical, and she had even used his mother's name, which was a true rarity in itself.

'She was head-strong, just like you are; if she decided to do something, there was nothing on earth that could stop her…' a funny expression donned Aunt Petunia's face, and she seemed unable to even look at Harry, her eyes glancing everywhere but at him... But then Harry saw. He realised, with a sudden dawning of understanding, exactly _why _his Aunt despised his mother so much. He knew _why_ she loathed him so intensely, and even why she had married Vernon Dursley.

'You were jealous,' he muttered quietly. Uncle Vernon shot him a nasty glare, and his two friends lifted their eyes to him with curiosity, but Aunt Petunia never met his gaze. 'That's it, isn't it? That's the reason for all of this: you were jealous because my mother got the letter when she was eleven, and not you. _You_ wanted to be what she was, but because you couldn't possibly, you resorted to hating her.' He took a few steps towards the doorway, and still she refused to meet his eyes. 'And that's the exact reason you hate me too, isn't it?'

Mrs Dursley sniffed, her eyes of a distinct red. 'I did not want you,' she replied eventually.

'I know that,' Harry responded icily. 'I've known that since I was a baby.'

'I did not want you,' she continued, as if he had never spoken, 'because of who you were, what you had _done_.'

Harry frowned incredulously at this, his mouth open a little. 'I was a _baby_, Aunt Petunia, what could I have possibly done to make you _hate_ me?'

'My sister died defending you!' she snapped, fixing her teary eyes on his with a fierce glare. 'I never got to speak to her, ever, to resolve our differences – do you know how that feels?'

'Actually,' Harry replied coldly, 'I have a very good idea: I've grown up without parents. I spent eleven whole years living in a house in which no-one had any love or time for me. "Shut up, Harry". "Don't ask questions, Harry." "Do everything we command of you, Harry." "Go to your cupboard, Harry!"'

'I could not turn you away,' she continued, as though there had not been another interruption. It was as though the completion of this story was of vital importance to her; in an odd sort of way, to Harry, this was important: _this_ was the reasoning behind his first poor childhood, the one spent in this house…

'You were – _are_ – everything we stand against; you're the product of my sister's … _relations_ with people like – well, like _you_! Abnormal rubbish, all this wizarding malarkey! But I knew when my sister was killed just how dangerous your world is – it's not all hocus pocus and silly wand-waving … and I knew when I took you in that I was placing my own family at risk from this … Lord – oh, _whatever_!'

Harry surveyed his aunt for a time in silence. This explained it all, really; all those years in the cupboard under the stairs with the spiders, the chores a slave would not be expected to do, the meagre meals. All of it made sense now. His aunt possessed an understanding of Harry's world that was deeper than she had ever shown before…

But then a thought struck him. It seemed bizarre to think it, but it _was_ possible - after all, his mother had had true ability, and so did Harry…

'Aunt Petunia,' he began hesitantly – what he was about to ask surely could not be true, but it would explain so, so many things, 'are you – are you a – a _squib_?'

'Pe – Petunia,' stammered Uncle Vernon, 'what does-'

'Quiet, Vernon!' There was such venom in her voice, such rage, that Vernon Dursley silenced himself without argument, and instead settled to looking very discomfited with the entire situation, while remaining thoroughly purple.

Her eyes shot to Harry's, blazing with a fire of anger. Their intensity made Harry back away a few steps. She stared for only a few more seconds, then turned away furiously, saying nothing. Harry heard Hermione give a small gasp.

'You _are_,' Harry uttered, barely believing it.

'And I am _ashamed_!' Aunt Petunia hissed venomously. 'That there could even be a trace in my blood of _her_ sickens me to the core!'

'Only because you wanted to go to Hogwarts with her and couldn't,' Harry responded quietly. 'That's the reasoning behind it all, and it's all the reasoning I'll ever need.

'Well, tonight I'm leaving, so you won't be reminded any further of what I am, and of what you _really_ are – though I would have _loved_ to hear you tell Dudley…'

A silence ensued that was so heavy it felt as though it was dragging the very air down. Ron and Hermione were glancing from aunt, to uncle, to Harry. Ron took a slow sip of his water, making a rather loud slurping noise. It was Hermione, however, who made the first move…

'Have you got all your things packed, Harry?' She was not just prompting him; she was giving him the opportunity to get out of the room.

'No. No, I haven't,' he replied, eventually peeling his eyes from his aunt. He cast a grateful glance at Hermione, who caught it and gave a small smile in response.

Harry excused himself and ran upstairs, not really caring about whether he woke Dudley or not. He closed the door and pressed his back against its cool surface. His head was reeling from the events of the last ten minutes. So many revelations … Aunt Petunia a _squib_ of all things – she was the very last person on earth that he expected to have even a drop of magical blood…

But he turned his thoughts from his aunt for the time being, and looked around at the organised mess on the floor of his small bedroom, with its old furniture and floorboards in disrepair. It was stiflingly hot, even with the window wide open … but it was his, with the numerous books on the Dark Arts strewn across the floor, coupled with empty crisp packets and screwed up parchment on which he had been brainstorming. Never again would he sleep in that bed. Never again would he clear owl droppings from the top of the wardrobe.

This was it.

This was the very end of life at Number Four, Privet Drive. He had longed for this day for so long. So many years. He had always wished to be elsewhere, _anywhere_, just so long as he could call it home and not have to return to this place – he was sure that if he tried to count the amount of times on all his digits combined that he had wished for a Dursley-free existence, then he would be out of fingers and toes…

But he was not leaving to go to a new home with people who loved him. Such dreams were wisps of smoke that were now lost to him. Yes, he was leaving this house, but to _what_? Not a certain home, as he had dreamed, but a world of danger and risk – he could face Voldemort in a day, a week, a month, a year … ten years could pass, and he would never have the certainty of a home as he had had here. This house was many things to him, and few of them were good, but at least it had been consistent and solid…

Harry gathered himself, and then proceeded with preparing to leave for the very last time.


	3. Chapter Three: A Place called The Burrow

Chapter Three – A Little Place called The Burrow

Hedwig preceded him down the stairs, gliding down the steady gradient at a considerable speed. She gave a sharp screech as she neared the hallway, and Ron, understanding instantly what she wanted, having grown up with owls, opened the door abruptly. The snowy owl clapped her beak at him appreciatively as she shot though the doorway, and her distant hoots could be heard as her white form was swallowed by the night.

Harry's journey from the top of the stairs to the bottom was not nearly so graceful. He strained with his trunk, letting it thud heavily from one stair to the next. 'Hermione,' he called out a he negotiated the bend in the stairs, 'could you get my broom out for me? It's in that cupboard.'

Hermione complied quite happily, emerging with the Firebolt a few seconds later and returning to its owner, who had now succeeded in getting his possessions down into the hallway.

Uncle Vernon, however, was stood gaping like a fish, gesticulating at Hermione and then at Harry's broom, his face fast becoming the prune it so frequently was.

'What?' asked Harry shortly.

'She – _that_ – _you _told Dudders and me that we couldn't touch it because you'd done something to it that meant only you could move the bloody thing!'

'Yeah, and?'

'I don't see _her_ ears turning into noses!'

Harry gave a mocking laugh. 'Oh yeah – you see, there's a funny story behind that: I lied.'

Harry turned to face his aunt, totally ignoring the curses that were coming from his irate uncle. Her expression was unreadable as she surveyed him back, her arms folded across her chest in a defensive stance. 'Accept who you are,' Harry said quietly to her, his gaze firm. 'You might hate it, but it's in you – you're a part of my world now.'

With that he turned away, nodding to the others that he was ready. Ron and Hermione stepped out into the night, Ron dragging Harry's trunk behind him. Harry paused, looking at his aunt and uncle for the last time. He gave a small smile and lifted his hand in farewell, before stepping out into the night. He had no need to close the door, for Uncle Vernon did it for him, shutting it firmly on his back. _Oh well; at least I'm not going to have to cope with that any more…_

'Ready?' Ron asked, rubbing his hands together, a look of pure euphoria on his face.

'Yep; how're we getting there? Floo powder?'

'Nah, mate; thought we'd fly it! We've got our brooms already with us – well, I have _my _broom; Hermione had to borrow George's.'

Hermione did not look nearly as enthusiastic as Ron, and Harry knew that his own face must be betraying his glee at having a long flight ahead. She glanced apprehensively at the two brooms in her hand that she had retrieved from hiding under a large rhododendron. She was not nearly as keen on the idea of flight as her two friends were; she looked rather worried, in fact.

'What's the matter?' Harry asked, becoming a bit concerned by the distinctly nervous way Hermione was drumming her fingers on a broom shaft.

'Nothing – well, it's just – I – erm…'

'What?' Ron and Harry pushed in unison.

'The plane I went to France in went through some rather bad turbulence and I – well. I thought…'

'You were going to crash?' Harry supplied.

Hermione nodded.

Ron looked from one to the other, bewilderment on his face. 'OK,' he said, with a somewhat wearied tone. 'This is one of those Muggle moments, isn't it?'

Hermione temporarily forgot her worries and looked at Ron, giggling. '"_Muggle moments"_?'

Ron's ears reddened - although this was hardly noticeable in the flat yellow tone of the streetlamps. 'Well, that's what I call them, anyway – you're both from Muggle backgrounds, you can relate to anything one of you says about the Muggle world, so, _Muggle moments_.'

'Hermione,' said Harry very seriously, 'there is nothing dangerous about flying on a broom; you've done it before, and you didn't fall off or crash or anything like that, did you?'

'Yes, but-'

'-Did you?' he asked again, but with more force.

Hermione, after making several attempts at arguments and failing under Harry's firm stare, eventually slumped slightly, and gave a grudging defeated smile. 'No.'

'You've flown on a Thestral and a Hippogriff before, and they're more dangerous than a broom. There are no engines to blow up, or wings to snap off or whatever. You'll be fine, trust us.'

'Exactly,' Ron contributed as he scrutinised a toffee he had found in his pocket with great suspicion, clearly trying to determine whether it was one of Fred and George's creations and was in fact safe to eat. Eventually, he gave a noncommittal shrug and popped it into his mouth, chewing experimentally a couple of times before waiting tentatively to see if he turned into a wallaby or anything like that. When the cautious sucking of the toffee proved to be non-eventful, Ron progressed with chewing with vigour. ''Arry's righ', 'Ermione. 'N' after all, we _are_ wizards; if anyfing 'appened, we'd be able to do somefink abou' it.' Ron stopped talking to swallow his toffee. Almost instantly, he sprouted a pair of magnificent antlers.

'Oh well,' Ron shrugged in an unabashed tone as Harry and Hermione dissolved into fits of laughter. 'Fred and George are at home; they can get rid of them for me. But I warn you,' he said with a frown on his face and in a voice that sounded like the perfect impersonation of Percy. 'If either of you try any funny business on this journey – and that includes you, Harry, I've told you Hermione'll get jealous if you do that again – I'll skewer you!'

Harry shook his head as Ron lowered his set of handsome antlers and made jabbing movements with them. 'Come on, Ron, you prat, let's go; I'd rather not be here now that I don't have to be.' He turned and looked Aunt Petunia square in the eye as she peered through the parting in the front room curtains. She flinched when he caught her staring, but did not relinquish her position, and continued to watch with an unreadable expression on her horse-ish face.

'Sorry, mate.' Ron bent backwards and proceeded with scratching between his shoulders with a prong, before taking his broom from Hermione and mounting. 'You know, I could get used to these; be quite useful in a tight spot, wouldn't they?'

Hermione gave a derisive snort. 'Oh, yes, Ron, _quite_ useful; right up until the hunting season, and then your head will be _quite_ useful as a hat stand.'

Harry, chuckling at Hermione's words, dropped his broom at his side. It did not hit the ground, but hovered at hip height, waiting for him to mount. He magically bound his trunk to the Firebolt's tail and finally got onto his broom.

'All ready?' Ron asked from the front.

'Ready,' both Harry and Hermione declared in unison.

'Right then!' And with that, Ron kicked off, soaring up into the night sky. Harry and Hermione instantly followed, and Harry gave Privet Drive one last look as he ascended, watching the neat lawns and concise rows of houses become tiny models in a toy town, the slither of light from the living room of Number Four becoming little more than a sharp gleam in a far away cat's eye.

This was a wonderful feeling; to have the wind in his face like this was the most liberating thing he had felt for the past two weeks since Dumbledore's death, and to know that Privet Drive was forever behind him caused his heart to skip lightly. Here was true freedom; who could touch them here in the heavens? No-one. Harry felt the kick of youth in him – that spectacular feeling of invincibility and ability beyond the stars.

They sped through the heavens, Ron navigating them confidently, occasionally referring to landmarks below to check their course. Finally, when a particularly large mass of cloud broke up for them, Harry saw The Burrow far below them, gleaming a dull red in the early summer morning sunrise. As much as he yearned to dive straight down as fast as he could and land in the garden, he thought he should restrain himself for Hermione's sake. They began to circle down, like great birds of prey, to come in with fairly smooth landings in the back garden.

Almost immediately, Mrs Weasley flung open the kitchen door, rushing out with her arms wide to hug them all. She hugged Harry last, before holding him at arms' length and examining him with a critical eye, swivelling him every now and again. Ron was standing behind his mother, wearing the exact same expression. 'Oh, Harry, dear,' she sighed, frowning. Ron silently mimicked her every word. 'Look how _thin_ you are!' Ron was still mimicking, now pretending that she was hugging him again.

Without turning, Mrs Weasley barked: 'If you don't stop that right now, Ronald Weasley, you'll be de-gnoming the garden with no gloves!'

Ron instantly sealed his mouth, dropping his hands to his side. Harry sometimes wondered if Mrs Weasley had a magical eye like Mad-Eye Moody; it often seemed that way to him.

'Right, inside, all of you,' Mrs Weasley chimed, steering Harry by the shoulders towards the door. In truth, she had to reach somewhat further than before to touch his shoulders at all.

'Ron,' she said whilst still pushing Harry. 'Why do you have antlers on your head? Or do I not want to know?'

'Toffee.'

She blinked at him. 'I don't want to know.'

The antlers, to Ron's marked disappointment, were beginning to diminish: rather than being large and having seven or eight prongs branching off them like an older stag, they were now half the size with only three prongs to each. Harry decided to buy some of those toffees from the twins next time he saw them…

Breakfast was laid out for them already, and was gratefully received by the three; it seemed like hours since Harry's crushed cold toast. Bacon, eggs, the customary toast with a range of conserves, cereal and drinks awaited them at the table. Harry had never realised how truly hungry he was until his eyes rested upon this breakfast feast, and he, Ron and Hermione settled down to eat, Mrs Weasley constantly monitoring the amount Harry was eating and finding ways to make him eat the more fatty foods of the spread.

Mrs Weasley finally drew up a chair, observing them all eating with satisfaction. She watched Harry with a particularly hawkish manner. Harry knew she wanted to say something, but what was it?

'Harry, dear,' she eventually began, her voice very grave, 'we need to talk about what you plan to do with yourself, lodgings-wise. Ron tells me you're out of the care of Mr and Mrs Dursley, is that correct?'

'Yes, it is; I left there last night,' he informed her steadily.

'Quite understandable,' said Mrs Weasley stiffly; as far as she was concerned, the Dursley's were like a blighting scab, one which should be picked from Harry's life without hesitation. 'Well, one thing you should know is that Godrick's Hollow belongs to you, and always has. However,' she said loudly, raising a hand to silence both Harry and Ron, who had opened their mouths, 'not a soul has been in the cottage since … well…'

Harry knew she meant to say: 'since the bodies of your parents were removed', and did not push her to complete the sentence.

'The matter is, Harry, that the house is still exactly as it was left sixteen years ago, and will need great restoration. And also, seeing as You-Know-Who knows where it is, he'll probably visit knowing that you're not in the Dursley's house anymore.

'I've been speaking with Arthur, and we're both agreed that you can stay here until everything is sorted out, however long that may take. We don't mind, just so long as you are safe, that is all that matters to us. You can have Fred and George's room, we've already removed one of the beds for you – but don't touch the boxes they've left. I asked Arthur to get rid of them, and he said three of them tried to bite him, so we've weighted them down with bricks. For heaven's sake, don't anyone even think about moving them. I've sent them an owl, and they say those boxes are dangerous, so don't touch!'

_Classic Fred and George, _Harry thought with some amusement. He remembered a time when they had had numerous boxes in their room years ago, the contents of which were destined to be sold in the Gryffindor common room. He flinched slightly at the thought of the common room, shying back from its deep comfort and blazing fire; the very thought of that old and dignified place of memories from a life already seemingly long since passed gave him an odd feeling of sorrow… Harry, however, quickly buried it in the depths of his mind: Hogwarts was something he aught to keep clear and untouched in his head … better to store those memories in the dark archives at the back of his brain so that they were good and crisp to look over when all of this horrible business was done with, than to sully and confuse them.

'Thank you.'

Mrs Weasley beamed fondly at him, her eyes shining with motherly affection. 'That's quite alright, dear.'


	4. Chapter Four: A Shift in Power

Hello everyone! Thought I'd disappeared off the face of the earth, didn't you? Well, not exactly; I've just been doing loads of uni stuff, and haven't really had the time to do anythng proper writing-wise - although, you'll be glad to hear, I am picking it back up again! Sorry, guys, for the reeeally long wait. This is a nice long chapter, though, with lots of stuff happening, so hopefully it will make up a bit for my disappearance. You even getto meet my villains, and yes! here is the Lord of the Rings!

* * *

Chapter Four - A Shift in Power

"I thought the King had already been swayed."

"The King _has_ already been swayed," said the other, a bite of impatience snagging in the haughty voice. "And there's hardly any 'swaying' to be done with an Imperius curse as good as mine."

"Then why are we here?"

The other man sighed, his eyes raised to the heavens as though in plea to someone above to cure the stupidity of his companion. "_Because_ the lords of the council need to be convinced."

"And that can't be done through the Imperius curse because…?"

The other man turned on his companion, teeth gritted against his anger at the other's apparent idiocy. "Ever tried to keep the Imperius curse on more than five people before? No? Well, it's hard, and there just happen to be twenty lords in the council, which is rather a lot to curse, in case you were unaware." A sneer warped Hartly's mouth. He eyes looked the other up and down in open distain. "Mind you, a rat is a bit of a stretch for you, isn't it, Wormtail?"

Wormtail stared at his companion in the darkness. If he had been a man of greater courage and power, he might have stood up for himself. But the Dark Lord had selected him for this duty purely as an assistant to Hartly. His wizarding skills were little better than those of a Squib, and, as any Squib would know, it is always considered best to not argue with those who are capable of cursing you in less time than it takes to form the very idea of doing it. To be allowed to come on a mission of such great importance was, of course, a high honour, and he would take any insults from Hartly with careful grace. There would be handsome payment come the end of this, he knew, so Hartly was a bearable grievance.

"Why can't Smith do it, then?"

Hartly sighed. "It is not practical to Imperius everyone within wands' reach, Wormtail. Surely even this small concept is not beyond your pathetic little brain?"

Wormtail said nothing. He drew his cloak tighter about himself as his feet found their way over the scrub. The night poked chilly fingers through his clothing, and the moon toyed annoyingly with them, offering them glimpses of their path before darting behind cloud cover. God, he hated this place with a passion. It was like going back to the Dark Ages, kings, courts and peasants blundering their way through their meaningless lives. He hardly dared think it, but he actually _missed_the Ministry trying to poke its nose into the business of the Death Eaters. And their location in this God-forsaken place did not exactly ease him…

The land dipped away from them jauntily and they followed its deep swell down and round, finally finding a well-beaten horse track to tread. Wormtail wondered at the wisdom of walking such a conspicuous path, but reasoned silently with himself that most normal human beings would not be out at this hour so deep into the morning and with the cold so bitter. And who would ever see them in this patchy moonlight? But this town that now sprawled in quaint tranquillity beneath them was a problem to him not because of the people in it, but because of those charged with its defence. They were no longer in the lands of the young king, but those of the Elf, and they had already almost been apprehended by his guard when they had attacked that farm two weeks ago. It was a real issue to him, and Wormtail voiced as much to his taller companion as the other drew his wand. He saw Hartly's lip curl in another contemptuous sneer as the man snorted. "You _are_ a pathetic weed, Wormtail. Draw your wand."

The smaller man sighed inwardly, glancing behind them as he withdrew his wand from beneath the cloak.

Hartly's lips remained curled as they walked to the outskirts of the settlement, but in a slightly different manner, and a light entered his eyes that only ever glowed in them on nights such as this. Wormtail found it deeply unnerving, but he raised his silver hand all the same, pointing his wand above their heads with a damning conviction the sleeping people of Fallsot knew nothing of. "_Morsmordre_!"

The Dark Mark plumed into existence above their heads like a giant clouded spectre, the gaping jaws of the skull disgorging the serpent into the air in a silent promise of death. Hartly stared at it for a moment. "And now, Wormtail," he all but whispered, the teeth he flashed in the manic grin shining pale green in the light of the image, "we go to work." The wizard's wand furled viciously in the air as the bellowed incantation was cast, and the teeth in his now laughing mouth suddenly blistered Hell red as Fallsot lost its peace forever in a moment.

* * *

Legolas' eyes focused in the darkness. He stared blankly at the complete black, fingers entwined with a steel grip in his sheets. Any trace of tiredness escaped him completely in that moment, and an inexplicable fear rampaged through him like a spooked horse. And all that spooked horse knew was that something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

His feet made nothing of the stone floor, and he practically flew through the open doors onto his balcony. The night air hit his bare chest like a hammer in its urgency to convey to him the wrongs of the night ... and there it was, twisted in the sharp cold of the wind as it pushed the knowledge at him, like the air could not bare to carry the smell of scorching housing. _Nothing_ smelt like that. It caught in his nose like poison in his gut, and Legolas' entire being stiffened with evil realisation at the glow of acrid red to the east.

Even as Legolas' alarm cries shattered the peace and frightened every soul within the citadel into violent wake, and afterwards when the men hauled unnerved horses from their stalls and he and his Captain bellowed instructions, the terrified screams of the dying could not be drowned out in Legolas' ears nor, did he think, could they ever be.

* * *

"So … how many hours left of this, do you think?"

Harry would have shrugged his answer to Ron's hushed question had he been brave enough. As it was, he hardly dared breathe. Madam Malkin shuffled around her store room, irritation pulsing from her like radiation similar to that he imagined would be used in a nuclear warhead as she moved boxes to get at what she wanted.

"No idea. Not too long, I hope. I'm starving."

"Don't think I'll eat between now and the wedding, anything to avoid coming back here-"

There was a crash, and the friends raised their brows at each other as thinly veiled swearing quickly followed. This was the fifth time they had brought their robes back after being goaded by both Mrs Weasley and Fleur's mother, Johanna. The two witches seemed to have formed a great bond in their planning of the wedding – the Mighty Wedding Pact of Hell, Fred and George had dubbed it – and it could be breached by no measure of pleading or persuasion. "What we say, goes," Mrs Weasley had stated and, in this case, it was Harry and Ron's dress robes that were doing the 'going'.

"I think we can scrap all ideas of eating," Harry muttered as a box of thimbles expelled its contents all over the floor. He watched a blue one role past his feet and under the near-by dresser. "She's going to kill us before long."

They both smiled pleasantly at the stout witch as she re-entered the room. Her narrowed eyes and distinctly sour mouth-set quickly advised them that smiling at her was not advisable. Madam Malkin heaved herself up her slightly off-tilt stool to stand with her head level with Harry's shoulder, mumbling around the dozen or so pins in her lips about boys and how inconsiderate they were to her when they grew so tall, and draped a fold of dark green cloth over his chest that shimmered delicately in the somewhat dimmed room. The colour was the main reason they were back. Cut could be changed fairly easily, and Madam Malkin had not minded too much the first time. Her attitude to the colour change was a little off, but she quickly shrugged it off and tailored them new dress robes. Though she was being paid for every trip back, she clearly felt insulted; as Hermione had so astutely put it, it was like employing an artist and then telling them how to paint.

The women's gowns were ivory, or so they had been told - the boys had not actually been permitted to see them. They were somewhat confused as to why the dresses should be such a closely guarded secret, but they never challenged this; every time a man entered the room, the women fell silent, not even pretending to talk about something else. In the end the silence became so oppressive the offending boy would leave the room as soon as possible. Despite this, everything to do with the men's clothing for the day was the complete business of the women, and Harry and Ron knew they would be made to stand before them when they got back to The Burrow like a pair of convicts before the court. Before submitting themselves to the jury, they had every plan in mind to take advantage of their temporary freedom, which consisted mainly of going to Fred and George's joke shop and stocking up on things to wind the girls up.

It was a gruelling further two hours before the pair emerged from the shop with their new robes, both of them sporting a number of red marks where a pin had pierced skin, though they had hardly dared suck in air as a show of discomfort lest Madam Malkin chose to ram the offending pin right through. Diagon Alley, however, was little better to Madam Malkin's. As the Ministry posters blared down on them Harry tried vainly to avoid looking at the boarded-up visages of an uncomfortably high number of shops, and it did not help that every face they had passed all morning had been dour and miserable. _Hang on –_

Harry's hand caught Ron in the chest, his fingertips curling into Ron's flesh slightly. Ron's brow furrowed at the other's odd behaviour. "Harry, what-"

Harry cast his friend an unnerved glance. The hair rose at the nape of his neck as he said: "There's no-one else here."

Ron's mouth opened slightly, the sudden realisation smoothing his face.

Nothing moved.

The silence of the normally thronging street pressed on them with what felt like all the weight of the world, and fear waved its gripping claws at their senses. Harry suppressed the urge to spin round to look behind him, instead listening desperately to the dark silence, he and Ron simultaneously slipping their wands from their belts and keeping them guarded and ready by their legs. The sheer weight of the air felt like enough to suffocate them as they stood, trying so desperately to drink in the pressing danger … and the _ripple_ Harry sensed gave him a mere split-second to ram Ron out of the way as the aimed curse missed them by inches and blasted open a boarded-up shop front.

"_RUN_!"

The volley of hexes followed their pounding feet, flinging cobbles in the air with every hit to the street. Glass and splintered wood and stone rained on their heads as a curse hit the building along side them, a gigantic Ministry poster collapsing to the walkway. Voldemort's skull-white face laughed up at Harry silently from the purple sea. His blood chilled as the manic eyes turned to stare right at him, and he realised the terrible truth of what this meant. "Oh my God…"

Another jet of light, barely inches from Ron's face. His answering curse resulted in a sharp yelp from somewhere across the street. "Harry! Focus, will you?!" Again a near-miss, and it was Ron's turn to get Harry out of the way through tackling him to the ground. The heaped masses of brick and wood gave them a temporary shelter, though its advantages were heavily flawed, a thing proven when a curse blasted half of it away.

"Voldemort's taken the Ministry. We've got to leave. Now."

Harry tried to orientate himself, registering the shops around them in fevered panic. And right opposite them, the glass front blasted away, was-

"-Quality Quidditch Supplies. Still got that jar of Instant Darkness Powder?"

Ron rolled over to his side, fishing the glass container from a pocket, the one Fred had given him for emergencies… "Enough to put the entire street out … cover me."

Ron scrambled to his feet, towering over their shelter with the jar held high. Harry wondered vaguely what the surrounding Death Eaters must think, seeing Ron standing with a jar in his hand. He did not think on it for too long as he deflected a curse back to its origin, and then another two from down the street. Most of the jinxes and curses missed, but all that said to Harry was that those surrounding them had poor aim … or they were waiting until their Master arrived… Ron raised the jar over his head and lobbed it into the broken cobbles, the pair of them jumping the rubble shelter and racing into the pluming black. Darkness so complete even wand light could not penetrate it engulfed them. Shouts of alarm erupted from the Death Eaters, and Harry heard the fired jinxes increasing with the desperate hope of hitting something in the blackness. He continued to run until his shins caught on the low window frame, sending fire through his legs and throwing him into an already broken display. Ron swore near him and crashed in a similar fashion, choking as newly-disturbed dust assailed his lungs. Harry found his feet again, hands questing in the darkness for what he knew would be there somewhere - _come on, come on, COME ON! _… his fingers glanced over something long and smooth. His hand swung back and touched the length of wood again, this time grasping it tight, a grin splitting his face despite their situation.

"Got one!"

Ron stumbled, swore, and knocked something down. Something crashed deafeningly, and wood clattered heavily. Then: "Me too!"

Something scrabbled behind them blindly, and Harry had a horrible feeling that the _something_ would be armed and about to fire randomly into the shop. They must have noticed where Harry and Ron had been running, it was only a matter of time…

Harry dropped the broom by his leg, feeling it hover a little low for his liking. _Cheap make_. He swung a leg over, hoping that the broom he had would not fail him, not when he needed it so desperately. He heard Ron's feet shuffle and then be silent, and knew that he was mounted. "NOW!" Praying that his orientation was right, Harry kicked off. His broom gained speed, a slow breeze wafted in his face through the broken window. _I can't believe it! We're getting out, we're-_

The tip of his broom smacked into something with a sickening crack, and the next thing Harry knew he was flying in an entirely new and undesired manner. He toppled onto the shattered glass and stone of the street with the Death Eater he had flown into, tasting copper and hearing the pained grunts of the Death Eater as the man snatched hold of Harry's wrist in a grip of iron. He could see the man now in the inky blackness as their dark cover began to weaken, being pulled away by the lifting breeze. He should have known that Diagon Alley would do this to them; the place was like a wind tunnel. Harry could see the blood glistening from the Death Eater's nose and mouth – he had really cracked him one with the broom – could see the wand being raised and knowing that his own was lying beneath him clutched in his crushed hand. The wand pointed at his face, and he knew this was it, battle lost. The wand twisted-

Something screeched down on them, a foot careened into the side of the Death Eater's head and a hand grabbed the scruff of Harry's robes, dragging him to his feet and letting go. Harry cast a fleeting glance at the now unconscious man before grabbing the broom and leaping on over the ground, pulling into the sharpest ascent he could manage as walls rushed to meet him. The clouding darkness released him and he caught up with Ron in clear air, feeling the wonder of being able to see properly as London became a messy sprawl beneath them.

"Thanks for that," he said with a grin.

"Don't mention it – thought you'd have learned by now how to steer _without_ flying into people, though. And to think you were Captain."

"Very funny."

Harry looked behind him. What he saw did not shock him. No, he had been expecting it. But that did not mean that the implications of what he saw did not make his previously soaring heart drop like a rock into his stomach. He turned back, crouching lower over what he discovered to be a Sheersweep Cloud Grazer. Sheersweeps were notoriously cheap – highly spoken of by the manufacturers but poor performers. Harry had banned the team from having _any_ Sheersweep model last year. Behind them were flyers on brand new Fire Bolts, the next model up from Harry's own. There was no chance of him outrunning them.

"How many?"

"Too many-" Harry plummeted to avoid a hex and fired one back, missing but throwing the attacker off course – he clearly was not as capable a flyer as those he chased, as he took a while to recover. "We can't beat them Ron, I've got a Sheersweep."

"Oh, you are _joking -_" Ron paused to aim a jinx over his shoulder "-trust you to get the shity one!"

There was one option left to them, and it left absolutely _no_ room for errors. Harry could not afford to question how well he would manage this as Death Eaters began to draw in on them, edging along the side of their flight path to block them in. His eyes fixed on Ron's and he knew that his friend had come to the same conclusion as him by the grim set of the other's mouth. Taking a deep breath and making a panicked prayer, the friends slid from their brooms as one.

* * *

There was nothing left. Desolate, scorched land stretched nakedly before him, spanning an agonisingly long distance. Once proud trees stood now as great black splinters pointing brokenly at the boiling sky, the bared skeletons of what were once houses contorted into pained blackened ribs beside them, smoke belching from those that still burned and smouldered. The charred air dragged in bleak sweating swells over the tortured earth. Swifter to move was the horrible tang of burned flesh, and it caught in his throat, his heart. He leaned heavily on his bow, knuckles almost as white as the skin of his face beneath the soot.

"My Lord?"

Legolas did not answer for a time. He did not want to respond, he couldn't. To do so would leave the way clear for Barrick to give him his ill news. He did not think he could bare any more. And that ill news would be solely his to bare as the ruling lord of these lands. But take it he had to – there were others in this terrible tale, others whose pain was far greater then his ever could be after this horror.

He swallowed, not really wanting to hear the answer to the question he was about to voice. "Any survivors?" It was cracked, weak, a shadow of his normal strength.

There was a heavy silence, before: "No. Not one, my Lord."

A few shallow lungfuls of putrid air. He could believe it. Nothing save a Balrog could have survived this, the flame's ire had been so intense, eating _everything_ without mercy. But fires always have fire-starters… "And what of the ones responsible?"

"Not a blade of bent gra-" Barrick checked himself "-no sign, sir."

Legolas stared at the formerly proud town, once a bustling, flavoursome place of quiet prosperity and success. Of happiness and light after the Darkness that had dominated it for so many years. The passing of Sauron and the ruling of Aragorn had been a new lease of life for this little town, a release. Freedom. Now, it spread before him as a rotting carcass, cruelly slaughtered. This had not been a simple fire, started, say, in a smithy or house. This had been a violent torching – bodies had been found with daggers buried between ribs … and all of these daggers had borne the same symbol: a skull with a serpent emerging from the mouth like some crude attempt at a tongue, right at the pinnacle of the hilt.

"I want them found, Barrick."

Barrick bowed. "It will be done, sir. I have a company ready to depart: all they require is your command."

Legolas did not look at his captain, but gave his head a single nod. Barrick dipped his own briefly, before turning sharply on his heal and heading to his waiting men.

He turned his Elven eyes skywards. The search party would go out, but they would uncover nothing, just like when Asterlie had been found charred blacker than the pits of Moria. The circumstances had been identical, apart for one thing: there had been a survivor. A single man, who was able to do nothing after the horrifying event but sit and stare, rocking himself and murmuring: "white masks, white masks"...

Above the choking smog, the sky stirred restlessly, high clouds contorting themselves into agonised shapes. The land seemed to shudder under his feet with revulsion, and it was a learned fear he could feel running through its veins. A Darkness was rising again in Ithilien, he had sensed it for some time. At first, he had linked it to the passing of Aragorn, as though the land grieved his loss as heavily as those who dwelt upon it. But that had been over a year ago, and Legolas' own restlessness intensified to such a level that he could no longer dismiss what he felt as grief. The hair at the nape of his neck would rise sometimes, inexplicably, like the hackles of a dog afraid of something, but not sure why or what it was it feared. But there was something, and he could feel it now, running icy claws lightly over his skin and making it tingle unnervingly.

There were no reports of anything wrong in the rest of the young king's realm, no incidents like this that he had been alerted to. A small party had been dispatched to the White City to inform the King of this new attack, and Legolas expected to hear something from him soon. Indeed, he would not put it past the young King to come down to Ithilien himself to see what had happened.

But Legolas knew who it was. He had always known from the outset. He carried his eyes upwards beyond the smoke and stared at it, as he had done the turbulent skies above Asterlie. As repulsed as he was, he found it interesting that only the Elves were able to see it, and even then only some. He knew also that it would remain there for as long as the dead stayed where they had died; bitter experience had taught him as much.


End file.
